Mayhem (23 page)

‘Please,’ Elizabeth said, her eyes filling with tears, ‘please, just one more night. I’ll get the money. I’ll—’

‘It’s been a week. Enough’s enough.’

Even as Elizabeth continued to plead, she began to gather up her few possessions. Mrs Paine was not going to change her mind. She had never liked them much in the first place, and it wasn’t as if she was short of people looking for somewhere cheap and safe to rest their heads for a night or two; her rooming house was always full.

Her stomach felt heavy; the baby growing inside was five months old now. Over the past few months with John Faircloth she had found herself hoping his
violence would kill the child – such a wish would send her straight to hell, but she couldn’t help it. If she had been braver she would have tried to get it out herself. It was a monster’s child.

The moment she had collected her possessions, Mrs Paine followed her to the front door, and closed the door firmly in her face. Night was coming and the air was damp from the rain that had fallen all day. She cried some more, although no one paid any attention, and that made her feel invisible. She wished she
were
invisible. Ever since she had got back to London a month before, the dreams had become worse: dark dreams of something coming for her. She should have gone to Croydon with John, instead of fighting with him and telling him to go without her.

She had thought John a saviour when he asked her to go north with him to find work. She almost cried with happiness when he’d suggested it: off the streets and away from the city. But the work was hard to come by, and he showed himself to be not the kindest of men. After Ipswich came Colchester, and more failure, and finally he announced that they would walk back to London: better the devil you know.

It had been clear to Elizabeth then that she had been fooling herself, thinking she could run from her fate. She wished for sunshine, for some brightness to fight the awful dread that filled her soul, but she knew that would never happen now. Her carefree days were done.

Her feet ached as she trudged through the mud, heading down to the nearby docks. She had nowhere to go, but if she stayed still the cold would eat into her quickly and the longer she walked the longer she could delay the inevitable. Even at five months pregnant there would be men who would pay, but the thought of rough hands and rough walls and foul breath just made her want to cry some more. After the familiarity of just one man – however violent he was when the mood took him – the thought of doing
that
once again was almost too much to bear.

She looked out over the water. Perhaps she should find a bridge and throw herself from it. She had told John that she was going back to her mother’s, but the darkness that hounded her had reached out to her family too; when she went to visit her mother a few days ago, swallowing her pride and hoping to borrow a few pennies, she found her family no longer there. When the new resident told Elizabeth that her mother was in the workhouse, she felt almost weighed down by the guilt. It was the
wickedness
looking for her, she was sure of it, and now it had tainted her mother’s life too.

The water called out to her, suggesting it was somewhere she could hide forever. She wondered if it would be so bad to die in there – how filthy was it really? Would anyone ever find her body and fish it out? It would be a way to win, for
he
would not have found her. She was so lost in her bitter reverie that she
did not see the three men rounding the corner until the tallest had collided with her, sending her crashing to the ground. Her head spun as the moment broke and she was back in the London chill and the river was just the river, as it always had been. She did not want to die. She did not want this life, but she did not want to die. She sobbed and coughed in one.

‘I’m so sorry.’ A man crouched beside her and took her hands to pull her back onto her tired feet. ‘Are you all right, madam?’

His voice did not belong with his scruffy clothes. His eyes dropped to her swollen belly. ‘Are you in any pain? I’m a doctor.’

Elizabeth shook her head. She had no time for kindness. It would break her. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She wiped her eyes.

‘Leave her,’ the tall man said. His eyes were dark and his accent foreign. The other man with them stared at her, picking at his face as his eyes darted to the river. She tugged her arms free and began to walk away.

‘Wait.’

She turned. The man who had helped her held out a few coins. ‘Take this,’ he said. ‘We’ve dirtied your dress.’

She hesitated for a moment, a pretence at thought for the sake of her pride, and then took the money. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

And then they moved on.

The money was warm in her cold palm. At least
she would eat tonight, and sleep somewhere safe. She turned her back on the river. She would not end up in its grasp. She
would not
.

30

London. April, 1889

Dr Bond

I was impatient to get home. I had to change and be at dinner with the Hebberts within two hours. Our investigations had once again proven fruitless. My research had revealed lists of those who had been treated for various strange illnesses, but often the details were vague, especially of whether the patients had travelled in Europe, and if so, where, prior to becoming sick.

The man we had come to see tonight – a cloth manufacturer, as it turned out – had been dead for more than a year, as his poor wife told us. What she made of us I could not tell; we were normally greeted with some form of suspicion, and I could not blame them for that. Even the poor young woman the priest had knocked over looked at us strangely. I thought perhaps I should start wearing smarter clothes – at least that way one of us at least would look respectable.

‘I had hopes for this man,’ the priest muttered. ‘He lived and worked close to the river. He had travelled.’

‘Well, unless he is killing from beyond the grave, I think we can cross him from our list.’ I tried to keep
the irritation out of my voice but failed. The police were having no better luck, but they at least were trying to follow traditional leads, not ones founded on superstition.

‘I feel it so much more when I’m around you, Dr Bond,’ Kosminski said, watching me. His pupils were still wide with the effects of the drug, even if his tics and odd mannerisms were returning. ‘It is almost as if you carry a little of it on you.’

I shivered slightly at that. ‘Perhaps it is because I have examined the victims?’

‘Maybe.’ The hairdresser did not sound convinced. There was something about his manner when he was under the influence of the opium that gave the nature of our hunt, the
insanity
of it, credibility. He
made
me believe, and I could not help myself. He
saw
things.

The priest, who still refused to share his name, paused in his stride, bringing the three of us to a halt. If we were a small army in this mad search then he was our general.

‘What?’ I asked as he studied me, leaning in so close I could see the wide pores and deep wrinkles on his worn face. He ignored me and glanced at Kosminksi.

‘You say you feel the presence more? Near the doctor?’

‘Yes.’ Kosminski’s thin fingers worked at his wrecked top lip, peeling more skin away as he nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, don’t you?’

‘I see differently to you.’

‘I can assure you,’ I said, indignantly interrupting
their moment, ‘that I am not the killer you seek.’ Heat rushed to my face. This was ridiculous. Could they really be suggesting such a thing? What about the visions? The auras? Surely—

‘Calm yourself, Doctor.’ The priest gripped my arm with his good hand. ‘Of course you are not.’

‘So what has made you look at me in that way? So suspiciously?’ I was still disgruntled, and I was also tired. I wanted to go home, to wash and make myself look like a decent human being who did not spend his life secretly hunting for a monster.

‘The
Upir
likes to be around blood and death. The stronger it gets, it will become more aware of us, those who wish to cast it into death or the river. It is a wicked and mischievous creature and it will seek us out – perhaps it already has, or perhaps it has found us by accident, through its host.’

‘What are you trying to say?’ I had no energy for more superstitions. I missed the days when my anxiety and insomnia had led me to seek refuge in the opium dens and the priest was just a stranger with a withered arm. It might not have been a perfect life, but it had been simpler. Now my exhaustion was worse, my housekeeper had started to mutter about my odd hours and erratic behaviour, and if the police were to see me with my current companions we would either all be arrested or incarcerated in Colney Hatch before you could strike a match. My patience had worn so thin it was tearing.

‘He’s saying that perhaps we should look closer to home,’ Kosminski said, softly. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ the priest said, ‘I don’t think
we
should.’

I looked from one to the other as the priest’s words sank into my tired mind. ‘You think I
know
the killer? Is that it?’

The answer hung in the silence between us.

‘That is
madness
.’

I almost laughed at my own words.
Of course
it was madness – all of this was madness: three unstable, drug-addled men feeding each others’ wild fantasies of ancient beasts and possessed men.

‘You think he is lurking among my friends and colleagues? Perhaps it is Inspector Moore, or Inspector Andrews, hmm?’ I was aware that my voice had risen and that other pedestrians were picking up their pace, not wanting to be part of any trouble that might arise, but I could not stop myself.

‘Or maybe it is my housekeeper? She carves meat well enough!’

‘Dr Bond—’ Kosminski cut in, trying to calm me, but I shook him away and stepped backwards, away from the pair of them.

‘I have had enough,’ I said, and in that moment I meant it. ‘Stay away from me. And stay away from my acquaintances. If I see you near my house I shall call the police. Do you understand?’

We all stared at each other as my breathing calmed. Neither of the other two spoke, and that suited me. I
had no more argument in me. I straightened my cheap jacket. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have a dinner to go to.’ I tipped my hat to them as if we were passing strangers sharing words in a busy street, and made off in search of a cab.

I was finished with them, this I swore.

*

At first I thought it was simply an echo of my earlier evening, but dinner was a strange affair. Still resolute in my decision to give no more credence to the priest and Kosminski and instead focus on my work and regain some form of sane sleeping routine, not only did I wash and change when I got home, but I burned the clothes I used on my trips to the dens. I had crouched so close to the fire in my study, watching the flames consume the cloth, that as I took my place at the Hebberts’ table I could still smell the soot clinging to me.

The dining room, normally so full of hearty laughter, seemed darker than usual, the candles in the chandelier above flickering every now and then, casting sudden shadows across the table. Our knives and forks chattered to each other as they clinked against china in quiet mockery of the lack of conversation and humour between the dinner companions. We did not sit in silence, but there was an unusual restraint in our talk, an emptiness in the subject matter, as if questions were being asked with no desire for any answer, simply because that was what one did at dinner.

I was surprised at the vast amount of food that had been prepared. Charles was always a generous host, but this time the quantities were almost obscene. As well as a brace of hares jugged in port wine, there was a boiled ham and a pigeon pie, and a fine array of potatoes and vegetables, after a thick fish bouillabaisse to commence the meal.

So much good food was at odds with the tension in the air. I looked around me as both Charles and James refilled their plates and decided that it was not tension; it was more as if each of us was dining alone. We were lost in our own thoughts, all except perhaps for Mary, who kept some semblance of interaction going with her questioning and recitation of the day’s events.

‘Do have some more, Thomas,’ she said, a tic of a smile touching her face, looking as if it was slightly embarrassed to be there.

I shook my head and leaned back in my chair. ‘It is all delicious, but I fear if I eat anymore I might not move from this chair – in fact, I strongly suspect I might break it.’

She laughed louder than my small joke deserved. ‘As long as you have enjoyed it. I know it might look somewhat excessive for a simple supper, but James is unwell, and his illness makes him hungry, all the time.’ Her eyes flitted across to her son-in-law and I could see the worry in them. ‘As you can see, he has lost weight.’ She looked over to her husband and added, ‘And his hunger seems to be catching.’

Charles looked up and smiled as he lifted another forkful of pie, but I had the impression that he had only half-heard her; he gave no witty reply. I glanced at Juliana. Her mouth was pursed and she was pushing food around her plate, making a pretense of eating. Small lines furrowed her brow, and although they relaxed when she lifted her head, they did not disappear.

‘If only they could find the cause of it,’ she said.

‘I’m fine.’ James put his knife down and wiped some gravy from his chin. ‘It will pass. It always does.’

‘It’s strange,’ I said, ‘for an illness to cause both hunger and weight loss, but it’s not unheard of, is it, Charles? It could be that a parasite has found its way into your body.’

‘How revolting.’ The lines returned to Juliana’s head.

‘It sounds worse than it is.’ I smiled at her. ‘It would explain his hunger.’ I was glad to have some focus for our conversation at last and I looked over at her husband. He certainly had lost weight, and his blond hair no longer shone, almost as if it did not have the energy. ‘These things are often found in water,’ I continued. ‘You haven’t been in the river, at all, have you, James?’